


The Artful Dodger

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [30]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 15:44:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17870084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: Race isn't very good at pick pocketing





	The Artful Dodger

**Author's Note:**

> idk WHY i am writing sm lately but i hope yall enjoy :))

There were very few rules in Brooklyn, even with Spot as the leader selling over there had always come with a lot more freedom than in Manhattan. When Race first started selling at Sheepshead he’d been young, but the rules had been given to him once on his first day and then never again, and he hadn’t forgotten them either.

If he was in Brooklyn he couldn’t sell outside Sheepshead, which he had expected from the start. He also couldn’t pick fights with the Brooklyn newsies, or mess with any of them in general. And finally, he couldn’t steal, not even from a passerby on the street; apparently it made all the newsies look bad. 

And years had gone by without Race breaking a rule, and he made good money during those years too, that is, until the most recent winter. Then everything kind of started to go to shit. 

It wasn’t even that much colder, he’d figured, but there’d been more snow than anyone could remember, even Jack, and kids started getting sick. And then more kids, and more kids and suddenly they weren’t pulling in as much money, or as much food. It happened like that, one hitch in their system and everything started falling apart. 

So when Race had gotten to Sheepshead that day, he wasn’t in as good of shape as he would have liked. It’d been a while since he’d last eaten, Crutchie had told that not counting the days made it easier so he didn’t even really know how long it’d been, he was running on even less sleep than usual, and it was just cold. Everyone always forgot about how hard the cold could get until it was right there in their face, literally, the wind had been bad that morning too. 

And so, after a couple hours of god awful selling with a god awful headline, Race started getting desperate, like really,  _ really  _ desperate. He needed food or something warm, and soon, or he knew he was going to lose it. 

He knew how to pickpocket as good as most of the Manhattan boys, and figured he’d only need to do it once so he could buy something small to eat. Plus, he’d already seen a Brooklyn kid earlier, which meant there probably wasn’t going to be anyone checking up on him for the rest of the day. There was no way anyone would find out, and it wasn’t like he was going to pick on an  _ orphan  _ or something, even in this weather there were enough people betting where he could find an easy looking target.

About an hour after that he was leaning against the side of the track, and he’d found the guy. He was alone and looked well off enough, and he’d even won his last two races and was betting on a third right now. Race’d been too tired to focus on the horses for most of the day, but he figured the guy knew what he was doing.

“In first place, Magnificent Storm,” the announcer sounded, his own voice getting caught up in the wind. They were lucky it hadn’t snowed, they would have called the whole day. 

The guy race was watching whooped out loud though, a winner obviously, and started for the collection window. 

Quickly, Race started forward after him, angling so that he was a few paces behind, catching up. Once he was half a step behind he cut in quickly, shoulder bumping into the guy’s as he took another step. He had the guy’s wallet out of his pocket and in his own after the next.

“Sorry sir,” Race mumbled. He made eye contact for a brief second, nodding his head apologetically. 

The man waved him off. “Don’t worry about it.”

He hurried past Race toward collection, and Race set off quickly in the other direction, toward the exit of the tracks entirely. He figured he’d count up what he got in the alley and ditch what few papes he had left, so it wouldn’t look like he was selling. If he was lucky, he could get a sandwich and be back in Manhattan just after dark. 

A light smile came over his face thinking of a somewhat full stomach when a sharp jerk on his collar pulled him harshly out of the tracks, coincidentally into the alley he’d been heading for. 

Without thinking, he kicked back, making contact and hearing a soft curse from behind him. “Get off,” he growled and swung his shoulder back to get leverage. Just as he turned and raised his fist his eyes widened. “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” Spot snapped, pushing Race back against the wall of the alley with one hand, and rubbing at his shin with the other. “Tryin’ to break my leg or somethin’.”

He cursed for another moment, and Race, despite having an interesting relationship with Spot, was panicked. Hunger and lack of sleep were definitely contributing, but the sudden shove had made his head spin, and Spot having him basically pinned had sent his heart pounding. He needed to get away.

Spot had stopped cursing and was looking at him with a hard eye. “What the fuck do ya think you’re doin’?”

Race pushed himself farther back against the wall, the feeling on the brick cutting into his shoulder blades oddly grounding. “I don’t know what-”

“Stealin’,” Spot cut in, “one of the only things you ain’t allowed to do over here.”

At a loss for words, Race felt himself losing composure quickly, hands shaking slightly against the wall. He didn’t have enough energy for a poker face. He didn’t have enough energy to say anything. And he didn’t.

When that happened, Spot fell silent, his grip on Race’s chest loosening slightly as his eyes looked him up and down for a long second. Race’s clothes were hanging looser on him, he knew, and Jack had almost made him back this morning for how pale he was looking, sickly, he’d called it. Spot noticed all of this, it seemed. 

Dropping his hand completely, Spot said, “C’mon.”

He started out of the alley without another word, and Race stared at him in shock for a few seconds before following. Honestly he thought Spot might knock him one, if not to show his own boys what happened when you stole, it wasn’t such a wild thought. This was strange. 

Race was keeping up with his brisk pace though, half a step by him the whole time. Neither of them said a word to the other, and Race tried to focus on where Spot was taking him, because it didn’t look like lodging. 

It wasn’t. After four or so blocks, Spot came to a stop, Race nearly running into him.

“We’re here,” Spot said simply, pushing Race forward into a small shop with a sign over it reading _ Rickman’s Deli _ . 

Race wasn’t really pushing his luck, and went in without protest, nearly melting on his first full step in the place; the smell was just  _ amazing _ . 

“Conlon!” 

A large man from behind the counter rushed forward once Spot entered, ignoring Race completely to clap Spot on the shoulder.    
“Mr. Rickman,” Spot said with a nod, “good to be seein’ you around.”

Rickman, still ignoring Race, chuckled a bit. “Of course, who could keep from workin’ when we got this gorgeous weather.”

Spot ducked his head and laughed a little himself, and Rickman continued. 

“What can I get for you and your friend?” he asked. Somehow he still hadn’t looked at Race, despite knowing he was there, but again, Race wasn’t pushing his luck. 

“Just two turkey clubs would be great,” Spot said. When Rickman nodded and headed back behind the counter, he lead Race over to a table in the corner. The whole place was empty, probably because of the weather.

Race sat down with his back to the wall and Spot across from him. 

“How much do I owe ya for the food?” Race asked, very aware of the wallet in his pocket, but shifting to grab his own bag of coins.

Spot waved him off. “Rickman don’t charge me.”

Nodding, Race fell silent again, lowering his eyes as Spot stared him down. Guilt was hot in the back of his throat, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to start the conversation. He just wanted to eat and get the hell out of Brooklyn.

“So you stealin’ now?” Spot asked, voice tight, as he leaned back in his chair. “A regular thing?”

Race shook his head quickly, throwing both of his elbows on the table. “Just today Spot, I swear.”

Spot didn’t answer right away, looking closely at Race, who wasn’t breaking eye contact this time. 

“How bad is it over there then?”

Race knew he was talking about Manhattan, and a surge of defensiveness blossomed in his chest. “It ain’t so bad-”

“So you’se stealin’ for fun?” Spot questioned, eyebrows raised. 

“Winter’s always rough, you know that,” Race offered, Spot’s gaze starting to make him shake a little, but not enough to pull away. “Gotta feed the little ones.”

“They sick?”

Race shrugged. “Not too bad yet, Jack just worries, holds ‘em back from selling.”

Spot hummed, biting the inside of his cheek. Rickman walked up with their food before he could get anything else out.

“Thank you,” Spot said politely, echoed by Race.

“Always,” Rickman answered, leaving them with their food after a sharp glance at Race, who did all he could to not glare back.

But the sandwich was  _ fantastic _ . He was three bites in before Spot had gotten a full one out of his, and his stomach rumbled loudly in response.

“Nobody’s takin’ it away, slow down,” Spot said after a low whistle. “And you’se provin’ my point, by the way, I know they ain’t feedin’ ya over there.”

Race swallowed quickly, probably a little too fast if the pain in his chest was any indication. “‘S how it’s always been in the winter, Spotty.”

Spot shook his head. “Not this bad, you look like you’se lost a good ten pounds, without much to start with.”

He stared at Race while he devoured another quarter of the sandwich, leaving his own relatively untouched. When Race swallowed again he nodded toward his jacket pocket. “Wallet still there?”

Guilt came over him again, but Race nodded, reaching for it when Spot waved him off. 

“I don’t wanna see it,” he dismissed, “if I ain’t seen it, I don’t got nothin’ to take away.”

Race raised his eyebrows. “You’se not takin’ it away?”

“This time,” Spot threatened, leaning in, “because I know ya need it real bad, but it ain’t gonna be like that if I, or any of my boys, see it again.”

Eyes wide, Race nodded, taking another big bite out of his sandwich, about two away from finishing it completely. 

A tension in Spot’s shoulders broke, and he leaned back with a sigh, pushing his barely touched food forward. “Ya can take this back to ‘Hattan too, give it to Kelly, I know he ain’t eatin’ either.”

He wasn’t, and the look on Spot’s face didn’t give any indication that he was going to take it back if Race refused, so Race picked it up carefully, wrapping and all, and put it in his other empty pocket. 

“Thanks, Spot.”

“Don’t mention it,” Spot said, shrugging. “I mean it though, I’m soakin’ ya, for real, if you’se get caught doin’ that shit again, you hear?”

Race nodded solemnly through the last bite of his own sandwich.

“I owe ya.”

Spot laughed at that, to Race’s surprise. “I’ve heard that before, just get across the bridge okay, alright?”

Race stood, but put a hand over his heart in mock offense, the food having give him a bit more energy. “Favors don’t just gotta be money, you know that better than anyone.”

“Don’t be cute,” Spot snapped, but Race swore he saw the slightest hint of a blush on his neck.

“Can’t help what God gave me,” Race quipped, starting for the door.

“Yeah, yeah.”

When he got to the front, he turned back quickly, dropped the facade for a moment. “Spot?”

Spot looked up from the table, cocking his head. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

**Author's Note:**

> sup!! hope this didnt suck,, im v tired so who knows tbh
> 
> leave kudos/comments if you liked it!!! i love yall!!!


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